


Dancing With Mephisto

by closetcellist



Category: Battle for London in the Air
Genre: College, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:50:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9000625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/closetcellist/pseuds/closetcellist
Summary: A look at some firsts between Irving Suttler and Thaddeus Beck.





	

Sutter knew he was absolutely, no question, going to fail his first year at school, and it was entirely because of the young Lord Thaddeus Beck.

He knew his name only because they shared a philosophy class, and he’d been staring at the other young man the first time he’d raised his hand to speak. Well, he’d been staring the entire time, and Beck had happened to speak and it was the only part of the class he could actually remember, which was unfortunate because Doctor Massey didn’t seem likely to be an especially lenient professor.

Young Lord Beck was lithe and pale and dark and handsome, like he’d stepped straight out of a Gothic Romance and into Suttler’s college class. And if Suttler had thought listening to him speak would somehow free him from whatever spell had been cast, he was sorely mistaken, because his voice was just like a cello or the purr of a jaguar, deep and musical and entrancing. There was simply no way for philosophy to compete.

So he was absolutely going to fail, because his classmate was too beautiful, and life was terribly, dreadfully unfair.

***

Suttler knew he was taking advantage but he couldn’t help himself, letting his knee press—innocently, innocuously—against Beck’s as they sat side-by-side on his bed. Never had he been more grateful to have gotten a single room as the day he’d worked up the courage to ask Beck to see his notes and found out the man had been writing poetry the whole class instead. Oh, he was still absolutely going to fail out of school, or at least this class, because he did, actually, need those notes, but it would probably be worth it because when he’d asked if he could hear the poem, Beck had said yes, and they’d ended up in Suttler’s—private—room, because it was closer, and now, well, now he got to listen to Young Lord Beck reciting poetry in his deep and stirring and frankly criminally enthralling voice.

Suttler was fully aware that he knew nothing about poetry, but Beck’s poems sounded good enough to him. They were full of feeling, and while it did ruin the fantasy a little bit that they were mostly about Beck’s fiancée, Suttler thought they still sounded lovely, and he was happy to say as much to Beck as many times as he was asked. He thought today’s was particularly good—it had some very vivid imagery, even if it was a bit dark.

“It’s really remarkable,” Suttler breathed when Beck was finished, his expression open and full of honest admiration.

“You think so?” Beck asked, turning his dark eyes on him, and Suttler had to look away, trying to somehow convince his body not to betray him as he already felt the flush on his cheeks. He missed the considering expression that passed over the young lord’s face.

“Yes,” Suttler said, twisting his hands together, all of his nerves fully visible. “I think you could probably be a professional poet. If you wanted to.”

He was going to say more, had about a thousand compliments lined up, but he found he couldn’t speak because he was being kissed, and suddenly nothing else mattered.

***

“I feel like I can be my true self around you,” Beck murmured, low and thrilling in his ear.

Suttler thought that voice would probably kill him; anytime he heard it, it was as though he could barely breathe. “Of course you can,” he said, trying and failing to keep the intensity of his feeling out of his voice. “I understand you.”

Beck pulled back for a moment, leveling such a dark and heated look at him that Suttler thought for a second he didn’t understand; yet, he wanted to, desperately, more than anything else in the world.

Beck pulled him in for a bruising kiss, and Suttler clung to him, tangling his fingers in the other man’s raven locks. The kiss was deep and hungry, and by now he felt very little guilt knowing the man who kissed him was betrothed to another. It was hard to feel guilty while being kissed like that, impossible really. He was only a man, after all, not a saint.

Eventually, Beck broke the kiss to brush his lips against Suttler’s jaw, pausing to suck a mark on the skin of his neck—Suttler thought distantly that he’d have to remember to wear his collar high when he went out—when suddenly, Beck bit him. Hard.

He’d never felt such intense desire, such an unexpected wave of molten heat in his core, electricity in his spine. Suttler couldn’t stop the groan that escaped him, too loud, too desperate, and he jammed his fist against his mouth to stop any further sounds, but Beck, and surely his neighbors, had heard. He felt Beck smile against the skin he’d just bruised—punctured?—and he shuddered, involuntarily, pulling Beck closer.

Suttler quickly realized he wasn’t the one in control, not here, not now, and he was grateful for it in a way he didn’t understand and didn’t care to question. Beck pushed him against the wall, his actions rougher now than they had been any other time, and Suttler wanted to shout, wished the walls were soundproof or that they were at Beck’s and he could manage a convincing falsetto. As it was, as they crashed together, some final pretext of Beck’s dropped, lost, and gone, he managed, somehow, to keep quiet, letting his body speak for him as he pressed, eagerly, into sharp nails and teeth and the full force of Beck’s true self.

***

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look quite this nervous,” Beck teased as they strolled across the campus, elbows occasionally bumping, Beck’s hands in his pockets and Suttler carrying both of their books. “Is there, possibly, something on your mind?”

It was a question with an obvious answer—Suttler still had not managed to learn how to keep his every thought off his face, and it was starting to become a problem. “I just…” His expression twisted up and Beck laughed, lightly.

“You do make it very easy, but I can’t quite read minds,” Beck said, smiling to himself.

“Will you come up?” Suttler finally got out. “I have something I, um, something I wanted to give you.”

“Of course,” Beck said, still looking far too amused for Suttler’s nerves to handle. “I love surprises.”

Suttler chewed his lip—which he _knew_ was unattractive, though he hadn’t been able to get past that particular bad habit yet—and couldn’t bring himself to make conversation for the rest of the walk. Luckily, they hadn’t been far from the dorms, and Suttler managed not to drop the pile of books as he fumbled with his key. Once inside, he stashed the books on his desk and pulled open one of the drawers, rummaging through it while Beck took off his jacket. “Here,” he said, finally, offering up a piece of paper with a handwritten passage on it. “I, uh. This is for you.”

Beck took the paper and started to read, silently, for which Suttler was eternally grateful. He loved to listen to Beck recite his own work, but he didn’t think he’d be able to handle it if he had to hear this read aloud:

 _He walks in shade, but his touch brings_  
_gold, weaves beauty from the dark, wrings_  
_meaning from the play of light_  
_on water, from the birds in flight,_  
_an augur of the simple things_

 _Son of Helos, centre of the rings_  
_celestial, from his mind there springs_  
_the world and he can turn it all to right_  
_He walks in shade_

 _All the Nine did give their blessings,_  
_grew in him a wealth of feelings,_  
_granting powers to delight_  
_or fill the heart with sorrow’s might._  
_This the man that stirs my longings,_  
_He walks in shade_

Suttler watched Beck as he read, feeling nervous and hopeful, a swirl of emotions in his chest. He’d spent hours in the library working on it, consulting books of poetry and books on how to write poetry, putting in as much effort as he did on his actual studies. When Beck seemed to be finished, but still hadn’t said anything, he fidgeted, biting his lip again. “Well?” he asked, hesitantly. “What do you think?”

“It’s…very sweet,” Beck said, slowly, and Suttler’s expression fell.  “Really, very sweet.”

“But you don’t like it,” Suttler said, and it wasn’t a question. It was obvious enough from Beck’s expression. “I know it’s not as good as yours. I just thought…I don’t know. I just wanted you to know…how I felt and I know how important poetry is to you—”

“Irving,” Beck said, his tone softer now, along with his expression. He pulled Suttler into a loose, one-armed embrace while he pocketed the poem—the only copy—with his other hand, unnoticed. “I am very touched by the gesture.” He pressed a feather-light kiss to Suttler’s temple, and the young man finally relaxed, burying his face in Beck’s shoulder.

“I love you,” Suttler mumbled, half-hoping Beck couldn’t hear, that it would be too muffled by the cloth, even though he’d been trying to say it for weeks, had tried to say it in the poem, had tried to find any safe way to express his feelings that wouldn’t end in disaster.

“I know.”


End file.
